Grievances
by celestialcelest
Summary: There is strength in moving forward, and Severus Snape is a coward. Oneshot.


_Note: This oneshot is based off of Prompt 407 from hpfanfictionprompts on Tumblr - "Being two of the last few survivors of their year, Remus Lupin reaches out to Severus Snape just as he begins teaching as Potions Master." It was tagged Snupin but I saw so many more opportunities if I answered the prompt without romance (also I'm fairly unwilling to write any Snupin), so that's what I did._

* * *

Severus Snape started his job as potions master in September of that year, as Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters' reign reached a crescendo. Finally, he'd gotten the job after Horace Slughorn retired, and after he gave Dumbledore his word that he would be loyal to the Order. The promise had been nothing more than whispers about Voldemort's plans. It had been nothing more than the evening he spent eavesdropping on a woman's prophecy, giving word to Voldemort, then finding Dumbledore and apologising fervently. And he meant every word. Voldemort was supposed to choose the Longbottom kid, not Lily's. Not Lily's.

Not Lily.

He begged. Oh God, he begged, and when the Dark Lord have him his word with an eerie smile, Severus knew his pleas had done nothing. He was left with no choice but to turn to Albus Dumbledore and plead again. He was a spy for several months, a double agent who worked on the adrenaline of inexperience and poignant worry that settled in his gut the way a body weighed down by stones settled in the ocean.

In the end, his efforts had been for nothing. The begging had been done in vain, his teaching position revealed nothing he could offer even to Voldemort. The only thing left was pain and fury and exhaustion. Too many times in the months after the Dark Lord's downfall, Snape would freeze up under a dark glare or an unflinching grin before he remembered that those eyes, that smile were not the features of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He imagined packing up and leaving many times. But the value of the jar of galleons stashed in his desk drawer fresh after the war was about the value of a jar of knuts before it. Sometimes he imagined himself as the jar of galleons, fresh out of the war. He used that word, fresh, more than a little ironically. The war did not put a spring into Snape's step or fix his wilting posture. It did not clear his bloodshot eyes. Hell, it didn't even convince him to wash his hair. Nothing would convince him to wash his hair.

A letter from Remus John Lupin arrived outside his window on a Friday in late December, Severus having retreated to his house in Hogsmeade over Christmas break. A blizzard spun through the air and a brown owl clung to the stone windowsill outside, feathers blowing in every direction. Severus braced himself for the wind and opened the window, an icy chill blowing over his face. The bird flew in and perched as far from the window as she could. With some difficulty, Severus latched the window. He took the envelope from the shivering owl and ran a finger along the seal with mild curiosity across his features. The envelope bore only his name, and he wasn't expecting anything from anyone. It only took him a moment to scan through the letter and make out the signature, after which his lips curled into a snarl. He perched on the end of his armchair.

 _Hello, Severus,_

 _I'm writing to you because I've lost track of how much time has passed since I talked to any old friends. I'm in Hogsmeade for two weeks in January — we should catch up then._

 _Remus_

With one hand, Severus crumpled the parchment, and with the other he gripped the chair's arm. He stared at the wall in front of him, breath shuddering in his lungs. If the curtains were drawn, he would have hurled his copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ across the room. As it was, however, the curtains were not drawn, people were strolling along the road outside, and so Severus sat. He relished in the satisfaction of watching the letter burn in his fireplace. If he could help it, there was no way he would come face to face with Remus Lupin or any of this friends ever again. For the most part, this had been easy considering two of them were dead and the other imprisoned, but Remus had been difficult to avoid up until Voldemort's fall. They regularly saw each other at skirmishes and missions, and then when Severus begged for Dumbledore's help, he worked alongside not only the werewolf but Potter and Pettigrew and Black as well. There was nothing more painful than working with his childhood tormentors. Even now, thinking of years gone past, he felt his heart race in terror.

Severus looked at the owl, perched on the back of a dining room chair. They locked eyes for a few moments, and then the owl let out a soft hoot. For a moment, Severus almost felt sympathy. Almost. The thing flew to his house in the dead of winter from who knew how far away to deliver a letter, only to see it destroyed. But to think that this owl might belong to Remus Lupin sent a fresh wave of anger through him, and he "shoo-ed" it from his house without so much as a bowl of water.

* * *

The war hadn't been good for either side, or for anyone for that matter. This showed in Remus Lupin's eyes, his posture, his skin. He looked like he did in the days preceding the full moon, and he looked like it all the time.  
Every single one of them had experienced loss, whether they were the Order or the Death Eaters. He tried to remind himself of that. Anyone who was of age, and many who weren't, had experienced loss because of the war. It was a mantra he repeated every morning as he looked at his scarred face in the mirror, the skin pale, the eyes red and swallowed by shadows. He told himself everyone was going through the same pain. The concept, if morbid, was comforting. They were a community of angry, grieving people.

He tried every day not to see the faces of classmates from years past, but he was never successful. He saw them in the newspapers, he saw them in the faces of their cousins and siblings, he even saw them in places faces shouldn't be, like beside his reflection in windows and mirrors, or in a mannequin wearing a specific article of clothing. Most of all, he tried not to see his friends. But they were the ones he saw most often. In phrases that echoed inside jokes, in keepsakes scattered around his home, in a familiar-sounding voice on the radio. He saw them everywhere, apparitions of his imagination, just out of reach.

In the months that followed the war, he picked up a job as a stock clerk in a little muggle grocery store just outside of London. It was humble work, at times barely enough to live off of, but he supposed he managed, as he was still alive as Christmas rolled around. A couple weeks beforehand he realized, without really noticing, he'd been saving money to buy gifts for his friends. The action had been an instinctive one. With no one to buy for (the Order had fallen out of touch, or at least he had with them), Remus was left with enough money to rent a motel room in Hogsmeade. That was why he wrote to Severus Snape. He didn't know whether to expect a response in return. After all, there was a difference between revenge and doing something worthy of of revenge, and they'd all crossed that line too many times. At this point he wasn't even sure if it was Snape's ill-treatment of Lily that started his and James' rivalry, or if James had instigated the feud, only that he allowed, and even joined in on, the harming of Severus Snape.

But they were the only ones left from their year. If there was any time to reconcile, it was now. So he wrote. There was no reply. He still went to Hogsmeade when January came.

He found himself in The Three Broomsticks on a Tuesday, relishing in the nostalgia of butterbeer and his mother's copy of The Hobbit. A few times, he caught himself staring into the distance, and each time Madam Rosmerta brought him out of his stupor by asking if he wanted another drink. Each time, he declined. He hadn't even been in Hogsmeade half a week and already it looked like he would have to return to work early.

Each time, Rosmerta nodded, the corners of her lips lifting into a tired smile. Each time, she hovered by his table, took a breath as if to say something, then walked to the next table. Remus understood what she was trying to say.

" _You can talk, if you'd like."_

He didn't want to. He'd already talked enough, harassed Dumbledore and McGonagall in the wee hours of the morning when he felt he couldn't take another five minutes like _this_. He'd already scrubbed his wound raw, he thought as he turned a page. All there was left to do now was to let it scab over. Perhaps the scar wouldn't be as deep.

For a few more moments, Remus immersed himself fully into the book, before he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He placed the book face up on the table and turned his head a certain way, and that was when he saw him. The tavern's soft lighting cast shadow over his face, but Remus knew the glint in his black eyes, the slouching frame. He craned his neck further and made eye contact with Severus Snape.

* * *

Severus had no idea what made him walk to The Three Broomsticks that day. Late afternoon arrived, and sky was a blanket of overcast, snow begging to fall, but not a flake was on the ground. The moisture in the air chilled his bones as he walked down the cobblestone roads characteristic of Hogsmeade. Both the dread of once again coming face to face with one of the Marauders, and the curiosity of seeing how Lupin had fared after the war swirled in his chest. A curiosity that could only be satisfied, and a dread that could only be worth anything, if Lupin was sincere about his invitation. From childhood experience, whenever these things happened, it was meant to poke fun at Severus' belief that the inviter wanted to see him.

That's why he was surprised when he saw Lupin reading at at table in the corner. He considered for a moment turning around and walking back to his house, he considered forgetting about the whole thing. He would just live out the rest of his Christmas break in peace. Of course, that was when Remus turned around and saw him, and that was when Severus knew he couldn't leave without talking to him. In their youth, the four of them had been relentless in their pursuing of anything. A girl, a grade, an ally. People didn't change, and so it was best to get this over with. To make it clear he wouldn't be any sort of ally to Lupin.

Severus made his way to the table.

Lupin's eyes followed his footsteps, creaking along the hardwood floor of the tavern. The pallor in his skin was reminiscent of the pallor that developed near the full moon, even though it was nowhere near that time. Perhaps it was pronounced by the tavern's soft lighting, or perhaps it was pronounced by the deaths and arrests of the friends he grew up with. Severus felt a cruel kind of shock in his gut. Rarely had he seen someone look this pathetic. His curiosity faded.

Remus attempted a smile, but it looked like more of a grimace, and it didn't reach his eyes. "Good evening, Severus," he said. His voice sounded brittle, like he didn't use it much nowadays. Like he was destined to break, like he would if Severus so much as breathed on him.

"Good evening." His thoughts were laced with malice, but his words were civil. "We seem to have run into each other."

"Indeed." The word held no intent of harm, no sense of mocking that Severus could detect. Still, he couldn't help but feel some twelve years of malevolence rise up in his chest. Of course, he wouldn't act on it. There was too much at stake to begin another war. He would have to make do with reveling in the man's misfortunes, and so far there appeared to be many. "Would you like a drink?"

"A gillywater," Severus said.

Remus passed this information on to Rosmerta, who nodded a greeting to Severus and disappeared behind the counter. Remus motioned for him to sit, and Severus slid into the chair across from him. As he took a slow, deep breath, Severus looked at the cover of Remus's book and allowed his lip to curl.

" _The Hobbit_ , Lupin?" He familiar with the book from his youth, but hadn't touched it since his third year.

"Of course." Though the defensive gesture was subtly made, Lupin rested a slim hand on top of the book and pulled it closer to himself. He continued, "I think, especially now, it's important to indulge in something from a… simpler time."

It was then that Rosmerta brought Severus his gillywater. He thanked her. While he sipped it, that word, "indulge" resonated in his head. After he placed the glass down, he asked, "Why are you in Hogsmeade, Lupin?"

"Well, I found myself in possession of some money."

Severus took another slow breath. "But _why_?" he hissed. He didn't come here just to be told that he should be wishing for the return of his childhood. It wasn't as if he ached for it every day. It wasn't as if he felt a gaping absence in his chest when he remembered he couldn't see _her_.

Remus took a sip of butterbeer before answering. "Truthfully, Severus, I visited to ask for a job, and—"

" _No_."

"—and to reconcile."

There was a pause as Severus unclenched his jaw and sipped at his gillywater again. And another one when he set the gillywater down on the table, punctured only by the dull clunk of glass hitting wood. Like hell he would give Lupin a job. If he felt any sympathy toward the man, he might take precautions around the risk of employing a werewolf, but as it stood, he did not. After his visit, Remus Lupin would return to his house and his —presumably— muggle job, judging by the patched tweed suit he wore.

Lupin cleared his throat, wrapping both hands around the mug in front of him. A third silence, broken by his slow, deliberate words. "Severus, how we treated you growing up was cruel and insensitive. I am truly sorry."

Severus said nothing and sneered.

Lupin continued, "We had no right to make a living hell out of a time that should have been carefree. I don't ask for forgiveness, merely acknowledgement of my regret." He said the last part quickly, with a curt smile. Severus watched as the disheveled man picked at a string from his sleeve. His gaze hardened.

"Why now?" he asked.

Lupin looked up at him, an eyebrow raised.

Severus sighed and continued. "Why didn't you and your friends _apologise_ ," he spat the word, "before they all became unavailable?"

A flicker of hurt or something similar crossed the man's eyes. Lupin lifted a hand to gesture, but glanced at it and curled it into a fist. It was too late: Severus had already seen it shaking. He smirked. Silence manifested between them. When Lupin spoke, he spoke with a furrowed brow.

"Because they were kids and they were foolish and I was also foolish and went along with them because I was scared. And I'm sorry. Sincerely."

"Sincere though your apology may be, we can't know if the Marauders collectively decided Severus Snape was worthy of a 'sorry'."

Bowing his head, Remus grimaced. "I know. But as you pointed out, I'm all who can apologise, and an apology is all I can offer."

Severus felt a funny twinge in his chest. Again, he reached for his gillywater. He couldn't forgive Lupin. He could not muster the courage to move forward. That was his greatest weakness. Emotions could be left behind, but not the past. Only the brave could start afresh. That's why he was no Gryffindor.

Lupin opened his mouth and took a breath. He hesitated, then took another breath and asked, "Do you acknowledge my apology, Severus?"

He nodded once. "Yes. But I'll be damned if you believe that I am forgiving you."

Lupin grimaced again. "I understand." Then, pushing his butterbeer away from him and taking his copy of _The Hobbit_ , he said, "It was lovely seeing you again Severus, but I must get going. I hope you enjoy the rest of your Christmas holidays—"

"I don't need your wishes and well-beings, Lupin."

With a curt nod, Lupin squared his shoulders. On his way out the door, he took a cloak that was frayed along the hem, fastening it around himself. That was the last Severus saw of him.

* * *

When term began a week later, Severus lost himself in the ebb and flow of his work. Readily, he allowed it to consume him. A month passed without so much as a blink.

It was on a Saturday afternoon when the sky was clear and the air was icy that his conversation with Lupin reentered his head. All he had to hear was a similar phrase, and now the entire thing had reappeared as vivid as if he was experiencing it in real time. He couldn't get any marking done, for nothing but words from their conversation stood out in the student's essay before him. Words that left his mouth, words that hung in the air, words that hung in his mind. He paused in writing a comment at the end of the parchment to massage his temple.

Severus still stood by what he said. He wasn't going to forgive Remus. He wasn't going to forgive Peter or Sirius or James. Especially not James. As far as Severus was concerned, James had done nothing but fail time and time again.

God, he missed Lily. Every time his heart beat, it bled. It shattered. It ached. To dwell on it was to dwell on the dread that filled him each time he thought of all the years ahead of him, all the years he had alone.

First, it was his hands shaking. He placed his quill back in the jar of ink. When he felt pressure in his chest, he stood and began pacing. At some point, he crumpled near the back of his office and wept.

There were so many things he wished then. He wished his past had been happy. He wished he would've been in Gryffindor. He wished he could forgive. He wished he could've protected Lily, that Lily had forgiven _him_ , that Lily had _chosen_ him. It wasn't just his heart that ached for her, it was his entire being. His soul.

He could've sworn that there was a time when she felt the same. What had happened to that? When had it ended? He could've sworn there was a time when she looked at him a certain way, when the brightness of her eyes broke through the shadows in his. He could've sworn there was a time when she'd felt the same longing, he could've sworn there were moments when she was about to ask him if he loved her too.

" _Yes_ ," Severus always heard himself saying. " _A million times, yes._ "

A sharp knock at his door startled him. He didn't want to see anyone, he rarely did these days, and contemplated how much noise locking himself in his storage closet would make. He sat silent. There was another sharp rap at the door. Whoever wanted to see him was being persistent. Severus took a slow breath, urging himself to sound calm. His emotions weren't anyone's business.

He brushed his hands across his cheeks, dug the heel of his palm into his eyes until he saw stars, took another slow breath. Stood. Walked to his chair.

More knocking. He sat.

"Come in," he said. His voice was clear, unmuddled by anything except a faint annoyance. An annoyance he regretted when Albus Dumbledore pushed open the door. Severus stood, pushed in his chair and bowed his head. "Professor."

A curious smile spread across the man's lips, but like Remus's smile that evening in the tavern, it did not reach his eyes. "This is not a formal meeting, Severus. As is such, we do not need to observe formalities."

Severus sat back in his chair. While he rearranged the parchment on his desk, Dumbledore conjured an armchair opposite him, which looked far more comfortable than his own, which was wooden and stiff-backed.

"Would you like an armchair?"

Severus glanced at Albus. "No, thank you."

"Tea?"

"That's alright—"

"Sweets?"

"I'm alright, Albus." The finality in his tone seemed to silence the man, and thank God for that. "What is it you wished to discuss?"

Albus fixed his eyes on Severus, who almost looked away from the intensity of his gaze, which was a blue light sharper than the Sun, something altogether different from the warmth of Lily's eyes. During blinks, he refocused himself until his gaze had hardened and he was fighting back with his own intensity, a darkness that trapped the Sun. Albus shifted in his chair, resting his elbows on its arms and pressing his fingertips together.

In front of him sat a boy wounded by hardship. Disgusted by mediocrity but ruined after his life became anything but. He could see it in the red eyes, the tired face, the hunch of his shoulders. Yes, Severus Snape was a boy, and a boy ready to destroy everything around him if only it could turn back time. A boy whose skill he needed on his side, a boy who would protect an important part of the equation with his life.

"I'm worried," Albus began, "that you might harm another."

Severus stared at him, unmoving.

"Which is to say, I am worried you have harmed another without just cause." And as an afterthought, "I believe you know who I'm referring to, Severus."

When he still showed no sign of recognition, Dumbledore continued, "I am speaking of Remus Lupin."

Although Albus had sworn not to use Legilimency during this conversation, he knew he'd hit a mark. One might have missed the twitching of Severus's hand, but he didn't. One might have missed the millisecond hitching of his breath, but Albus didn't.

"He did not confide with me the specifics, but you must know that with thoughts come power. With words come even more."  
"I did nothing except tell him the truth," said Severus with a voice he kept low and hissing, with a voice that may have been quivering had he spoken at a normal volume.

"As honest as your intentions may have been, I will not tolerate petty animosity between my staff and the public."

"It's not _petty animosity_ , Albus. That werewolf and his friends made my life hell."

" _Remus_ has offered you an apology, and you do not wish to take it, and so you two are at a stalemate. That's all there is to the matter."

"Give me a reason I should allow a checkmate. Give me a reason I should forgive them."

Albus was certain in that moment that if this boy had an army in his hands, he would order them to stampede over every moment of his past. He would order them to let him begin anew. It was just a matter of convincing him that he _was_ the army.

"Painful as it may be, you have everything at your disposal to put it behind you. You have an apology, and you have the means with which to accept it."  
Something changed in Severus's expression — a darkening of the void in his eyes, a strengthening of his resoluteness. "What if I don't want to put it behind me?"

"There is strength in moving forward."

"Then I am a coward."

For a moment, the blue in Albus' eyes flared. He blinked a few times behind his spectacles, quickly backtracking and refocusing his intentions. Things like this were trial-and-error at best.

There was still a way to win this, there was still a way to crack the boy's stubbornness, and Albus would. He had no doubt of that.

"Do you truly think Lily would have wanted you to live like this, Severus?"

He saw something shift in the boy's eyes, a shadow that flickered. After a moment, Severus opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was solid, certain. "No. But Lily can no longer know how I live."

Albus saw one more glimpse of his eyes, in them a finality that made him realize that he could not win today. He and Severus were at a stalemate, just like Severus and Remus. But Albus made it a goal, a certainty, that one of them would declare checkmate. The brightness outside was becoming muted, an inbetween of high noon and the setting sun. Albus would ensure that one of them won. Severus Snape, the boy of destruction, would be his project for the time being. He needed the boy by his side, he needed the remorse he felt because of Lily's death so he could keep her son safe.

Severus reached for the rolls of parchment on his desk. "If we're done discussing this matter, I have essays to mark."

With a smile, the wizard rose from his armchair and vanished it without a word. "Of course, how rude of me. I will leave you to your duties."

"Thank you, Albus."

Slightly inclining his head, Albus placed his wand in his robes. "My statement still stands, Severus. What happens now is up to you. Resentment is yours alone."

"I'm aware."

Wishing the boy good afternoon, Albus left the office, closing the door softly behind him. He winked at a passing student, then carried on down the corridor.

Like the setting sun, he would illuminate the way. That was simply fact — people needed him to step up and lead. Such was the burden of cleverness. He was expected to have a plan, expected to be one step ahead five years before the enemy returned. Here was the start of a plan, something that was obvious and something that would allow him time to piece together the rest of whatever might unfold. He was weaving history, helping a boy to stand on his feet after the death of his love.


End file.
